My Boy The Peace Offering
by fly birds fly
Summary: violet finds herself broken and alone after the failed attempt of she and her boyfriend tate's escape of the mental facility. how can she get tate back? tatexviolet • rated M: violence, sexual themes, insanity.
1. —1—

**— 1 —**

I woke up dead again and stared up into the rooftops of the trees, my own mind disappointing itself into the reality of how the last forty-eight hours were very much so not a bad dream. Delusional and angry, I did what any other sick mental patient would do; try to escape and _do away_ with anyone who got in my way. Reminiscing, the beautiful dull serrated kitchen knife was dazzling on the cutting board. I had never entered the disease of a kitchen before, nor had I planned to but if it meant keeping him from harm, well, of course I would have. I was on meds. They just took away my prescription prescribed to me over seven years ago and replaced it with one such as for what seemed to be a big, strong sixty year old man; over six times the size as I. I was only five-feet even and as skinny as a twig so when the over dosed me with that drug, it corrupted my sanity…well what was left of it. So, I cut him loose killing seven of security in the process which was one of the things that he was pissed off at me about and we escaped. Almost. Until we were caught by over twenty armed guards and I knew I couldn't win. Eighteen guards and patients were killed in our failed escape, seven my doing, and nine his. Two were on accident.

He had taken me from my home. And as much as I love him, as you may know, I despise his demonic soul. He's crazy and a psychopath, of course don't tell him I admit that. Apparently the nurses in the dreadful facility told me that I was addicted to this kind of lifestyle; the lifestyle of death and _fairytale-land._ That would explain a few things. Like the reason why the sight of blood makes my heart leap with joy, why death seems so glorious, and the most obvious, why I am head over heels for a psychopath murderer. But then again, most of the girls at our old High School were; although unknowing of his grim addiction.

We had gotten caught. It was only four hours before school started that Thursday morning. Three-am Wednesday, March Twenty-Fourth. I told him about one of the teachers who after _secretively_ attempted to _come onto_ one of the sophomore girls and failed to do so, try to rape me, he went berserk. The same darkness of insanity immediately clotted in his eyes and my stomach dropped wondering how we were going to do this. That's right. I had seen that look a hundred times before; he was going to murder Mr. Lawrensson in cold, psychopathic blood. What twisted the murder into one of a mentally insane was the way he had performed them, making investigators call this killer a psychopath. After finding his mother's third boyfriend at work, he poured gallons of gasoline on Larry then lit a match and walked away satisfied of the victims agonizing screams. Another time, he had flickering lights and a sickening stripping of vertigo that killed some girls. He did do one hell of a job cleaning up the murders if I do say so myself. It was unbelievably attractive…then again, only to the female psychopaths like myself. My presence was already consumed by such a darkness that after meeting him, he just triggered the insanity just aching to be exposed. It was odd how the doctors in this hospital diagnosed me with schizophrenia after they literally pulled my story about the murder house and the ghosts out of me. They thought it was delusional and insane for me to believe the truth, which was he and I were once alive but both brutally killed inside this murder house. Hence the freaking name.

But, killing Mr. Lawensson wasn't the tricky part. The tricky part was one simple mistake that caused he and I our freedom and insane wellness. After the bloody mess of Mr. Lawensson's entrails were perfectly cleaned up, even luminol had not the decency to detect the spatters, he and I burned his body and let the ashes flutter away in the wind. It was satisfying to know that in a few hours, pupils of his classroom would walk across his remains and sit in his class and wait for a non-existent person to arrive and teach them. But the mistake was what came next, we had forgotten about the security cameras in the English classroom until after the head principle arrived. Mrs. Pallix, the principle, dialed 9-1-1 after recognizing the two psychopaths as I, Violet Harmon and he, Tate Langdon. The police took us away and caged us in this new home served as a hotel for the mentally insane. They seemed proud that they had caught us, little did they know how enormous this arrest really was for the state, hell, the country! Tate and I have killed hundreds of people throughout LA, Vegas, Oklahoma City, Miami, Washington D.C. That's right. We achieved the biggest murder of the year; we killed the president of the United States. They deserved it though; no one died innocently.

_But, why are you here, Violet? _You may be asking, in the middle of a freaking forest. Well it's not a forest…more like woods. The sun was high in the sky but gray clouds covered its piercing light. Dead leaves were blizzard across the pitiful little town. Chilly wind was making my porcelain skin freeze and crack. I wasn't scared. I was cautious. I was without my Tate, my love and protection. It felt so weird without him by my side. After I had committed suicide in the murder house, Tate would not let me out of his sight. But, I'm strong I can fend for myself and certainly live well from it but I'm what they called a brat when Tate is around. He eyes me and treats me like a million dollars on a pedestal.

Finally, I gained enough strength to push myself up into a sitting position. Yes, I'm dead and yes I feel pain and oh Lord have mercy was the pain scale nearly to the tip top. Rips of gory flesh tore across my thighs a little too close to arteries for my taste but then again, I was dead already. Duh. But I wasn't one-hundred-percent sure that the dead couldn't die again and then really cease to exist or not. Once on my feet, I looked down and my mouth fell agape in the amount of blood puddling on the wood's dead leaves and thin grass. Soon, I gathered my surroundings. About twenty-five meters to the west was an old what seemed to be abandoned shack. It probably only covered one-hundred square feet, walls of ripped tin, and roof full of burgundy shingles punched with holes. Glass windows were cracked and shattered with the remains of old bird nests in the pricks of the slivered glass. South of where I was standing was a road most likely a highway, hopefully a highway. I seemed to be in one of those quiet rugged towns that slowly withered away without a care in the world. Oh, Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore...well maybe Kansas actually. It seems to me that I am near the central portion of America. Obviously I've been shipped off and relocated in a _safe and secure_ area; away from any important people who I may kill. Wait, kill...death... where's Tate? I always think of him when someone mentions death.

My feet spun me around in search for his familiar blond curls. My breath was becoming uneven.

_Focus, Vi, you need to control yourself and figure out where you are and where the bitch who dumped you and Tate here so you can have her skin sewed into a blanket and blood in a lava lamp. _ I smirked at the thought of her remains decorating my room; how beautiful. Of course the soul wouldn't be. _Maybe Tate already found her and killed her. _I thought. That would be nice but I would like the pleasure to be mine, hurting my best friend like this is unacceptable. Oh, and me, and hurting me but I don't care as much as I do Tate.

I took my first step towards the shack thinking it would be best for now; I didn't want to be out in the open on the road in plain sight of any other psychopaths called scary, normal humans. I pressed the door opened as many pebbles and rocks fall leaving massive dust trails. I thought about how I would be coughing if I were alive. Cautiously, I scooted into the dark shabby late-home. The sunlight broke through the windows and holes in the roof, striking random objects in the room. Immediately, I felt another presence in the room. I looked to my right and saw an old rusty tin pipe. I grabbed it for a weapon and sank deeper into this soon-to-be-murder-scene. Oh, I knew I was in for blood and the suspense was twisting my stomach in such a way, I literally started smiling from the joy. I think my eyes clotted with black like Tate's does because I was jittering with excitement. Short shrills echoed through every metallic object and they became louder and louder the deeper I came into the shack. Finally, I heard it. The tired scream that made my head spin, the one that always made my blood boil. Tate. I found him already. Screaming in agony.

"Tate?" I asked voice quivering. No, tear's are not aloud. I kept searching for his broken body somewhere in this dark abyss. The pipe was raised in such a way that made me look as if I were ready to swing the head off of my foe. My foot clanks into something. It was firm but not heavy. I dropped the pipe and my hands felt what I ran into. A shoe.

"Tate!" I exclaim stomach dropping. I crawl ahead. I finally found him. I sat facing him, legs straddling his waist. He was sitting upright in the corner obviously tortured. My right arm snaked behind his neck to lift his head towards mine. His eyes were closed but he was alive...well as alive a dead person could be.

"Tate look at me." He moaned. My focus was falling apart and I was almost freaking out. I've never seen him like this; even in the hospital when he was tortured for doing something either stupid or worthy of escaping. My other hand traveled down his torso trying to find any serious wounds. My hand and clothes became wet with cold sticky blood. Stabbed. He was stabbed in the lower, right side abdomen at least three inches deep. What would happen if the dead died? Could it? Right now, it seemed like it.

"Tate, love, we have to get out of here. I need to help you." I told him biting the tears back. I lift his head up and when I saw his closed eyes, immediately they flashed open and instead of being the warm, deep brown ones I was so used to, they were a striking, glowing red. He looks at me and with supernatural force, lifts me off him and pins me down to the ground, my head clashing the pipe. Blood oozed out. His hands wrapped around my throat wishing to squeeze the dead life out of me.

"TATE!" I choked out, blood dripped out of my mouth. "What the hell are you doing?" I exclaimed now crying. I didn't understand him he spoke fast and a language I didn't know. My hands gripped his wrists. Then, what happened next was nothing I had ever dreamt Tate to do to me. He picked my head up then slammed it to the concrete floor. I had bit my lip from letting a scream escape. It was as if he were trying to get information from me. I was confused, hurt, and mentally weak. He did that many more times until the either seventh or eighth time, I can't remember, he slammed my head to the ground and although it was probably completely unintentional, my head clipped the pipe and pain zapped my body and brain. My last thought was of Tate as my world goes black underneath the monster I call my best friend.

**I hope you enjoyed it ;)**

**-ryelle**


	2. -2-

**—2—**

The cold blinding white room was filled with tables upon tables for every patient. Three groups of a dozen were attempting to cooperate on getting their daily rations of what this facility calls breakfast. The food here is not edible; sometimes I think it's moldy mush of the jungle floor in the amazon. I don't really care though; not like I eat already. My numbingly cold feet lead me towards the line. I probably looked determined for food when inside, I needed to find _him_.

"Where's Tate, where's Tate?" I mumbled to myself searching through the many patients and guards. Last night, he had slipped into my room somehow and this morning, he woke up later than he wanted so he could escape back to his without being noticed by any guards. So, the guards found him. They had taken him away out of my room. One of the four almost taken me captive because I was trying to fight and escape instead, he just hit me; the reason why dried blood is gripping from my hairline.

I haven't seen Tate for nearly four hours; he was taken at 5:30am. I hate this place. I made up my mind between tolerance and hatred; hatred might describe what I feel towards this hospital. _Might_.

They better not be hurting him like they had Gin; a psychopath in the same group as Tate. Gin was a mass murderer who set the victims up making their deaths look like suicides. He was exactly like Tate, being able to clean up his tracks perfectly and never, ever made a pattern so that investigators wouldn't have the doubting suspicions of murder instead of suicide. Well, he had tried to perform one of his murder stunts again but this time, on the medical examiner. Of course he was caught, tortured, probably killed. No one has seen him since. Tate and I always joke about the stories of this old mental hospital and how so many people have died here. Tate said that the spirits always stayed under the hospital; in secure -1+ floors and whenever someone had attempt escape, murder, or division among patients, that someone would be thrown into the -1 base. I didn't think that was true until I was alone. Each patient must travel down to the first story of the hospital to get his or her tags and tracker renewed every month. When I had, I had lied to a guard about needing to go to the restroom. Once I was alone in the stall, I lowered to my hands and knees and pressed my ear to the cold, broken tile. I closed my eyes and relapsed into the total, complete silence. There. My eyes jolted open and my body sprang me to my feet. Screams. Too many for me to count. Tate must have been telling the truth.

I had then unlocked the stall and walked up to one of the five broken sinks where a long, eleven foot horizontal mirror was glued to the wall. It was dirty and never cleaned having many streaks. I turned on the icy water and washed my face. When I looked up, an image flashed across the mirror and left. I gasped. It was gory, dead obviously. I didn't understand what it could be; no sane animal known to the human world would have looked as bizarre as this, thing.

But right now, I wasn't concerned about this hospital being haunted by one lost spirit; I needed to make sure Tate was unharmed, more so alive. After sulking through the line of dead mush, I realized I only had a cup of water and pills with me. I didn't mind. After downing the pills and cup of water, I dumped my dish into a bucket for the dirty dishes. On the wall, a clock read 9:28am I then ran off. Amazingly, I was able to slip from the slow and surreal cafeteria and storm the halls in search for Tate. I pass the kitchen looking into the glass windows. Knives, cutting boards, and old what used to be food stocked the room. The knives, dull. Cutting boards with dried and fresh blood. A chill was cast down my spine as I silently paced on. I have never done this before; I was never one to get myself into enough trouble that was payable for death. Then, with my eyes locked on something that caught my eye, I turned a sharp corner and had collided into someone. I gasped and almost let out a small shriek until the person clasped a hand over my mouth. We had paused for a second just so our eyes could lock. Tate. His unusually dark eyes stared into mine as if he were just trying to let me know it was him and not someone out for my blood. In relief I relaxed and let him lead us into the dark alley of rooms.

Tate had told me that whenever the hospital was built, the rooms were calculated uneven to the total square feet that the hospital was constructed in so in between every third room, there is a long, pitch black fold in the wall where supplies are kept. Thankfully, there was one across the hall from the corner Tate and I found each other at. He pulled me into one and we were sitting in the back of it, supplies in front of us hidden from the light.

"Tate, what are we—"

"Shhh." he soothed. He covered my mouth again. He leaned against the back wall and I was pulled into his lap. He pulled us deeper away from the light. What was he hiding from? Soon, I heard footsteps.

"I'm going to kill him. One way or another, it will be done slowly and painfully. Who does he think he is making a fool out of me? How will I do it, electrocution you say? Oh, seems splendid to me." Him. The schizophrenic medical examiner. He was insane and crazy, he should be a patient but instead he is the one who kills the patients who are to die from disobedience. He used to be a doctor but then, he died. Yes, they have an insane, zombified post-medical examiner as one who kills. This facility thinks he's sane and kills the people painlessly but those are both lies. Mr. Webber tortures them and uses them as his guinea pigs in experiments and then kills them in the end.

Electrocution? He wants to kill Tate like that. I guess that's what his voices told him. That made my blood steam and my head ache. I was already angry and by the time I had that psychopath in my hands, I swear I will rip out his insides and feed them to the falcons always swarming this haunted hospital. The falcons are the most normal alive creatures here, except for Tate. Okay yes, he killed over fifteen people and raped three but he's different now; I can see it in his eyes.

Finally Mr. Webber made it around the corner and to the cafeteria. Tate and I started to breathe again.

"What did they do to you?!" I exclaim. He had turned me around. The light caught his face and my heart nearly stopped. He was in severe pain.

"Where?" my tone changed. His hand clasped his left shoulder and ribs right under that.

"Okay, I can't see here. Let me take you back to my room." Not being able to speak Tate just groaned. I helped him up and we hobbled back to the elevator. It was a risky process. Any minute now groups ten through twelve would be summoned to breakfast. Many guards would be owning the halls in just five minutes. Once on the elevator I let Tate lean into the corner as I had taken off his dirty, bloody shirt. Now in the light, I understand how much harm was done unto him. Immediately I see dirty tears of flesh across his shoulder and what seems to be an attempt to stitching up a fatal wound to the ribs. Overwhelmed, I didn't know what to do. I was angry, I was past angry now. Let me just say, that as a piece of advise to the mental hospital's workers; never piss off an insane psychopath in this way. Terror will be cast to every single creature who gets in her way until the man of interest suffers a slow death, not naming any names, Webber. Finally, on the fourth floor. His shirt in one hand, my other arm around him, I checked to see if the halls were clear of anyone and then I tried to run with him by my side and into my room. Room 283. Home. I unlocked the door and barreled in. After laying Tate on the thin, clanky bed, I shut and locked the door.

The walls were a filthy, dusty gray cement that matched the floor perfectly. In the winter, it felt like a house built of nothing but ice. I pulled the tiny stool from the bathroom over to the bed and sat on it. He didn't seem very conscious. Blood loss.

"Tate, tell me what he did. What did he use?" I asked trying to wake him up. Tate's eyes tried to open but closed again as he flinched towards me. He tried to form sentences but I couldn't understand. My eyes peeled towards the shoulder wound. I moved myself to sit at the foot of the bed where his head was currently resting. He had opened his eyes and found mine.

"This is going to hurt, you need to be quiet." He nodded. I absolutely did not want anyone to find him here being helped. No one is fixed here, everyone is hurt until death. He had bit his lips from making a noise as I pressed a dull, ripped cloth dipped in rubbing alcohol to his skin. His hands gripped the white sheet which were now beginning to be painted with blood. Oops. I didn't think of hiding that.

After cleaning to wound, I had grabbed a syringe and a small glass bottle of morphine. After filling the syringe with the pain killer, I injected Tate.

This wasn't the first time Tate and I stormed the hospital. The first time was when we first arrived in the prison. Tate knew their ways and he wanted me to keep some tools and anchors as such just in case. We first broke into the kitchen and stole three knifes, a five inch long one for me and a small three inch one for him. We kept one in between the mattress and frame of my bed. It was a large one that had to have been for slaughtering meat. Next, he had slipped into Mr. Webber's room which was where Tate was just tortured. Tate grabbed a small tin box and filled it with two syringes, bottles of morphine, pieces of ripped cloth, needles, threads, four pencils, two pads of paper, a scalpel, a medium sized bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a pair of scissors. We didn't know where to hide this box so, we searched our rooms. Whenever he had came back into mine after not finding anything in his, I found a distortion, under the small table, between where the wall meets the floor. My hand soon found a little latch in the corner and I pulled it. A small hole just big enough to fit the box in.

Tate's eyes were tightly shut as he bit down, hard on a cloth. Noises from the back of his throat were audible and it twisted my stomach every time I heard him. Soon, he slowly started to relax. The morphine defeated the intense pain inside him. He was awake still thankfully. I pulled the cloth away from his mouth and he looked up at me. My eyes caught his and I grinned slightly. He smiled and looked back to the wall the bed's headboard was pushed against. The needle in my hand continued to sew his shoulder wound up again.

"Vi?" He mumbled. I smiled hearing his voice tired instead of suffering.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Webbs locked me to one of his beds and was experimenting on me. He wanted to find out how much stress could rip through someone before breaking the body. He did it mentally and physically with a hook on my shoulder and a heated, sharp iron rod at my ribs." My eyes widened. The tone in his voice almost seemed, afraid. But this was Tate Langdon. He was the one scaring not being scared. I carefully set the needle on his shoulder and stood up, walking to the side of the bed where I sat down. After scanning his wounds again, my eyes met his.

"He told me that he had done the same to a girl named Leza and that she had a very low tolerance before she died. He proceeded to say that I was perfect for his second experiment, me having an extremely high tolerance to pain and stress." I didn't know what to say. I almost felt tears but I had already told myself that tears weren't helping anything.

"We're getting out. I can't have this happen again. When we get out, Mr. Webber, the guards who get in my way, and Mrs. Sajak are going to die." I tell him. Mrs. Sajak is the woman who is fibbed to be a witch who determines what to do with the spirits once Mr. Webber kills them. She is also one of the few maids of the hospital. Mrs. Sajak had tried to drown me in a bathtub of soapy water, just like the other three kids who had ran into her on the way to the restroom on the first floor. If she cleaned near Tate's room or my room, she would already be dead; Tate and I have been scheming her death since the murder attempt.

He nodded okay. Apparently this situation gave him the same hatred towards the hospital as did me. He had pulled my hand into his and then I had pushed myself to him, kissing him. His mouth tasted like rubbing alcohol and something burnt. I pressed my tongue into his mouth easily and a moan from the back of his throat made my stomach twist. My hand slipped out of his and it fell across his torso until it stopped at the back of his neck where I pulled myself deeper into him. He then lifted his arm around me and tried to pull me over him. I opened my eyes and moved away from him.

"I don't want to hurt—"

"I'm drugged, I don't feel anything." A burning sensation formed in my chest. _I don't feel anything._ The murder house. My suicide. When he shoved his fingers down my throat under the shower's cold water.

I just straddled his hips and leaned down into him, kissing him again. He smiled and bit my lip. His right arm came across my back and tucked itself under my shirt. I made a noise as I pushed my hips down, on his waist. His hand traveled under my old shirt to my stomach as if he were trying to memorize my body. His arm lifted asking me shirt to be pulled off so I had sat up and tucked it off. His eyes watched me as I slid my jeans off as well. I then kissed his stomach and bit his skin, lowering to his waist. Soon, my lips fell across his belly button and I pressed my tongue into it as he gave a short, breathy laugh from it tickling. I then clasped his jeans button and undone it. After tossing his jeans on the floor, he had suddenly pulled me back up to him.

"Hey, I wasn't—" His lips slammed against mine as I moaned fairly loudly into his kiss. His hand quickly untied my under-clothe and pulled it to the floor. I had sat above him in only my underwear. He pulled me into him as he softly kissed my lips. Then, he had sat up. I was about to protest but he stopped me by biting down on my lip and carefully turning is over. He laid on top of me.

"Tate, oh my goodness doesn't it hurt?" I asked shocked. He then looked at his left shoulder eying the thread coming from his stitches holding the needle which was hovering only an inch from my face.

"No." he replied with a chuckle. He sat up as I grabbed the scissors. I sat up and made one more stitch to close the wound and then tied it, cutting off the needle. As I turned to set the needle and scissors down on the tin box, Tate's lips dragged across my shoulder. He pulled me around and smiled down at me. He totally lost it.

**—**

We laid on the bed, Tate's head resting on my collarbone, lips against my neck. He relaxed on top of me sweaty. I honesty cannot believe that the guards have not tried to look for us. My breathing was slowing down but certainly not as slow as Tate's. Minutes of silence proceeded as we just enjoyed each other's closeness. Tate had fallen asleep from the morphine and a little pain. The morphine was probably starting to wear off and he was going to feel excessive pain because of him carrying his weight on his arms.

My hand stroked through his tangled, messy blond hair. I stared at the ceiling wondering how I was going to lie to the guards about Tate's blood loss on the sheets. He stirred.

"Tate, we have to clean up. We can't be gone too long." he moaned and lifted himself up, instantly falling back down on me. He groaned in pain.

"Tate." I said his name, worried. I sat up and slipped out from under his sticky body. He then laid on his back.

"Do you want more morphine?" I asked him pushing his damp locks away from his forehead. He nodded quickly. I prepared the syringe. Injected. Then I tied my under clothes back on me and tried to help Tate pull his back on.

Suddenly, a loud clanking bang against the door. Tate's eyes widened. I pulled him to his feet as we silently raced into the small bathroom. He sat in the tub, curtain covering him. Tate's clothes and the box. I quickly dump everything in the box then place it in its rightful spot. After dunking Tate's clothes in the bathtub with him, I walked out of the bathroom to see the door wide open.

"Did you not hear us?" Hadric bellowed. He was the Captain of this floor and hated everyone.

"Sorry—"

"Put clothes on and come with your group lunch!" he then left. I sighed a breath of relief as to he not being able to smell Tate's blood. After dressing, Tate had been out of the bathtub thankfully dressed and we headed out.

"This has been too close for my taste." I mumbled to him. As we walked down the hallway.

"Yeah." A few seconds later he adds, "Maybe next time, let's not be high or dying." I smirked as his arm fell around me. He kissed under my jaw line as we entered the elevator.


End file.
